Seasons
by Psychopomposity
Summary: Four vignettes from the year following the Avatar's triumph over the Titans of Pagan.
1. Summer

**Characters: **Beren, Cyrrus, Aramina, Devon, Vividos**  
Pairings: **Beren/Bane**, **Cyrrus/Jenna, Devon/Aramina, Vividos/Lothien**  
Warnings: **Graphic Violence, Platonic Necrophilia, Irrational Fear of Snow

**Author's Notes:** Despite it's incomplete story and horrible platforming, I rather enjoyed Ultima VIII, as I was quite taken by the bleakness of the world the horrible melodramatic suffering which seemed to plague the cast of NPCs. I wrote this series of vignettes as an afterward to the game.

* * *

**Summer.**

Beren stalked the sunlit parapets alone, the unrelenting noonday heat beating down upon him. He had bid his day's companion find her own way back to the city, for he knew well what the Tempest's guard thought of both him and his appetites, and he'd be damned if he'd step outside of the safety of the palace to escort a common trull back to her kip. The woman looked past him blankly as she walked from his chamber, doing her best to shield her face from the harsh glare of the noonday sun.

He took some pleasure in being one of the few souls in Pagan awake during the dead of day – so many years in the fires of the Crag had left him well adapted to the blinding light of Stratos' reopened eye. Daylight gave him solitude, and solitude was one of the few freedoms he had left to enjoy. Devon had been quick to grant him asylum when the populace turned against those sects mistrusted before the death of magic (recompenses for services to the city and all that) but Beren was well-aware that his sanctuary was little better than a prison, for all the comfort it might afford him.

It was not a bad existence. He had the libraries at his disposal and the privacy of a spartan room, and what obsidian he had from his enforcement days was his to do with as he would. He'd certainly fared better than the rest of the cabal, and though he would speak to no soul of his escape, thoughts of it remained one of the few things that might genuinely be said to bring him something akin to joy.

He breathed deep and stared into the heart of the sun, watching it tear a golden spot across the center of his vision. His mind raced back to that day on which Daemon's Crag fell: the scent of sulfur raining down upon them as the new-cloaked initiates clung to one another like frightened babes. They knew the Master was gone and that he had betrayed them, for each disciple of the fire could hear the dying Lord of Flame howling within their bodies. Utter pandemonium all around them. The earth shook. The sky sundered. Foci lay dross and dead in their crafter's hands and no magic responded to their pleading.

He ought have died on that day and he knew it full well even then. But in that fatalism, he had found a certain freedom, deciding that if it were his last hour he would let himself be driven by passion rather than fear. "A sorcerer is the sum of what he might take," Malchir used to say, and thus Beren took that day some measure of vengeance in the confusion of the flames.

Back atop the palace walls, the former sorcerer closed his eyes and let the image of Vardion's face flood the scope of his vision: his fat, pallid features twisting as the knife entered his neck. He could not hear the scream over the din, and Vardion, even if he had cared to, could not hear Beren's words to him.

"She wouldn't want the end of the world to claim you. Not when I could."

He had given no sign of recognition or understanding as he died: staring into space with dim cowed eyes as his last breaths gurgled out of the gash in his throat. His expression was one of confusion and pain, and though it was not as elaborate a revenge as Beren had dreamt in the nights following her death, that pain was more than enough to sate him. He'd have that image to carry into whatever hell he was about to be dashed, rather than besmirching his last few moments alive with pleas for sanctuary and prayers to dead or dying gods.

And yet, for all he was ready, he had not met death that day. Instead, he'd clawed his way back to the shores of the Daemon's mouth, burning the better half of his thin body as he stumbled through the flames. He thought at times, in his less cynical moments, that it had not been chance alone that let him live, but that some part of Pyros had survived to intercede – showing one last favor to the ruthless.

His reverie ended and a smile faded from his lips as he heard the clatter of mail in the distance. The midday guard was changing. He remained there a moment, quiet in the stark light - a somber man who had once been Tenebrae's scourge, living now by the mercy of a blighted Pagan's last Tempest and paying street molls to endure the sight of his burnt face.

He returned to his quarters, cursing himself silently for errant moments of self-pity. Pity was for the pitiable, and he would not allow it to infect his mind. When he at last returned to the sight of the sky, dusk had already fallen, and the darkening sky had given birth to a well of stars.


	2. Autumn

**Autumn.**

The wind blew lightly on the evening of Cyrrus' wedding, spreading the scent of dead leaves and mushroom spore across the glade. Many were fearful of the dying verdure, having seen crops ripen and burn brown under the wilting gaze of the newly arisen sun. Cyrrus, however, knew that all things changed and he hoped for better days. He thought often that there was a coldness in the air, and that it might foreshadow an end to the unrelenting heat.

Whatever lay ahead, fate had brought him already to Jenna, and that, in and of itself, was a happiness enough in this chaotic world. She had been aloof for so long when he'd first returned, and for many months he'd wondered if his suit would ultimately end in vain. It had been hard to fathom. For so long as a child he had assumed that the two of them would be together always, and could not imagine it otherwise. When fortune found that he should leave Argentrock, he could only assume that this would again be so, and he had been shocked by her initial coldness.

The passing of time and the changing of the earth seemed to soften her, however, and for all her early protestations, she agreed to meet him under the shade of the plateau one dawn. He had given her a moonflower and she had said "Yes," on that morning five months prior.

Darion had been overjoyed at her change of heart, for he said that she had for a time talked of never marrying whilst she worked under Orlok. He was grieved as any when the old sailor had fallen, but Cyrrrus could not help but think that he found some relief in the removal of Orlok's influence from his daughter. She, herself, seemed shaken by the man's death, and he mourned with her for her loss, as glad as he was to see her tempers mellow.

It was nearing twilight, and the first of the moons was visible against the purpled sky. He could hear his mother fussing already with the last of the preparations. He washed, shaved, slicked his hair with scented toraxen fat and donned his robe of white silk. For all the times he had envisioned this day in the past dozen years, he was nervous as the moment approached. It felt a touch impious that their was no Titan who might sanctify their bond, although he knew that men would still marry, whether or not there were gods to bless them.

Hours passed. The sky was near black and the second moon was on the horizon as the party marched toward the valley. Each member of his family carried a torch and wore a garland of lilies and sea wrack. The Lurker might be dead and gone , but Corinth would not abide a breach with tradition so long as flowers enough to fulfill it still bloomed. His heart pulsed quickly but not quite wildly, rapping out what seemed a thousand nervous beats for each footfall he made towards the scene.

His group and that of his bride met at last amidst the ruin – a site which all parties claimed neutral to the ways of old regions despite rumors that it had once been a shrine. Jenna's veiled form stood opposite his across the distance, flanked on one side by her father, who held her hand. Rough-hewn tables had been erected nearby, and were quickly filled with foodstuffs.

The ceremony was a plain one. The nominally secular Tenebraen chaplain was new to his post, and seemed almost as nervous as Cyrrus did. The words to the service were not quite those used by adherents of Stratos or of Hydros, but nevertheless captured the sentiment of both despite being stripped of their pagan trappings. The young groom first glimpsed Jenna's face as the cleric corded their hands together, and even through the veil he could tell that she had been crying. It took him a moment to realize that he was crying as well. Emotionality ran quick within him, and the joy he felt apparently needed tears to express itself.

He did not think, however, that Jenna's tears might forbode anything less than happiness, not until he drew back the veil to kiss her. The moment after their lips met she smiled, and looking into her eyes he could not help but think it was a pained smile – the sort an injured creature makes to assure others that they are not hurt.

The night was dark, however, and he could not be certain in the dim flickering of the torches.


	3. Winter

**Winter.**

Aramina tried her best to gaze through the clouded glass of the window, not wanting to touch it for fear of what had obscured its other side. She was deathly afraid, and though it was midday she hadn't the will to sleep.

Outside, the flitting petals of white spiraled beyond the pane. Nobody could tell what they were or where they came from, although they blanketed the earth much as stories said the ashes of Mount Morgaelin did during the days of the Destroyer. Wild rumors already flew, even in the isolation of the castle, that it eventually killed whatever plant or animal it touched, and until last evening, none she knew of would venture out of doors for fear of it.

She shuddered as she drew he shawl close about her shoulders. Devon had assembled all within the keep at yesterday's LastEbb and told them of his intent to go forth and examine the pale substance himself. It was the exact sort of rash gesture she'd come to expect of the young Tempest, whose common upbringing seemingly left him all too willing to take action where his predecessors would have relied upon the bravery of others. With Darion presumably trapped on the other side of the city, none could be found to dissuade him from the undertaking, and of the guards who remained, none would volunteer to brave the strange storm alongside him - not without orders.

Devon, however, was never one to order others to follow in his foolhardiness. He'd made his preparations alone and departed, promising to return before the next sunset. She remembered it as a promise, at least. She had run to him as he headed toward the gate, begging him to reconsider... taking his hands into her own in a manner hardly befitting her rank. And while he was not moved to quit his mission, he had granted her a smile, and had told her that she would see him again come dusk.

It was impossible to sleep until dusk fell, and though she loathed to think it, she supposed that it would likely be impossible to sleep afterward when. Waiting, she paced the empty halls of the palace, looking sadly at the pale world which looked in upon her. After all that had happened, she wondered if this would prove a final end to poor Pagan: the death of magic... the burning daytime star... the dying of the crops... would this strange ashen plague be the final one to visit them, or would there be more?

She passed the day drifting between dark thoughts, wandering the long circle around the Tempest's palace over and over as she waited for sunset. The sky was only starting to redden when she heard the great doors of the outermost gates swing open.

She dashed breathlessly to the front hall as she heard them, losing a shoe as she ran. Devon strode inside, his cloak and hair crusted with white and his gloved hands clasped closed. He grinned as he saw the serving girl run toward him.

"Aramina. It's water!"

She looked at him as though he'd just told her that his hat was the lost fourth moon of Zealos, but her relief to see him by and far outweighed her incredulity. He held out his hands and blew on the fistful of pale slush scooped within them.

"I ran up and down the better part of the city, and its all the same. Water. It's cold, but if you hold it in your hand or breath upon it or set it near a flame, it melts to water!"

Cautiously, she stepped over to where the Tempest stood, and watched over the next several minutes as the contents of his scooped hands reduced themselves to a clear fluid.

"Are... are you sure?"

"As sure as I am living, Aramina. It's like rain gone soft. Here. I'll show you"

He held out his hand and took her own, excitedly leading her to the threshold of the palace. She gave a little shout as he swung her into the white expanse outside, scooping her up in his arms such that her unshod feet wouldn't hit the cold ground.

"You're safe, Aramina. You can catch it on your tongue and see, if you don't believe me."

As frightened as she had been, Devon's surety put her at ease. Clinging awkwardly to the lord of Tenebrae's arms, the serving girl closed her eyes and smiled, letting the first snowflakes of the world's first winter fall upon her face.


	4. Spring

**Spring.**

"How long has it been, Lothien?"

He could not see her to gauge her answer, having dwelt in darkness so long that the question must be posed in the first place. Instead, he felt the hollows of her eyeless sockets and traced the outlines of her flesh-stripped face, waiting in the blackness for her answers to become clear.

Silence.

So long... so long had they journeyed together into this world of night, ever since the betrayer had sundered them from the Mountain King's voice. His faith had been able to survive the calamity though, and rather than drag himself back to the rank warm-blooded world of men, Vividos had made his final descent into the crypts, knowing that she would answer his questions even if the Lord of Earth would or could not.

The bones of the pit had lain still and quiet, and he could not ask them which way to go. Nevertheless, the workings of the labyrinth had etched themselves into his brain fast enough that he found her – even not knowing where it was she had been lain. She would not speak to him at first in those early days, left as mute as the rest of the dead by whatever perverse force had sundered the Titan's magic.

He refused to accept her silence then, and listened to hear the words that lay beyond it, waiting some three nights passing beside her until his candles' tallow was burnt up and the blackness of their new world enveloped them both. It was, at last, in that darkness that he had found his first solution, stripping night by night the soft soapy fat and skin from her bones until they were free and able to speak unimpeded. Her voice was faint at time, but it rang clear once he retrieved it, digging through the layers of extraneous flesh to find that which could not be buried. He listened and she spoke to him at last: his beloved, his mentor, his master.

She'd led him through this underworld ever since, giving him signs by which to choose his path and guiding him to choice roots and clutches of crawling things which served to sustain them. In the endless night that followed they roamed this land of inbetweens, neither dead nor living, existing in the gap between the surface and the pit. He knew not their journey's end, but he trusted her to bring them to it. His own wisdom for such things was -as always- incomplete.

"_How long has it been...?"_ She still did not answer. Instead she bade him once more cast his staff against the ground and follow where it pointed. There he would wander, and follow where she led. How long it had been did not matter, he supposed, for here time did not seem to pass.

Following her council, he found his way, and noticed a soft glow to the caverns to which she bade him trod - something too bright and diffuse to be the phosphorescence of lichens. As he pushed on, it grew brighter, and the stale air of the caverns gave way to the scent of dew and breeze.

Vividos emerged at last in an unknown valley, squinting his eyes as they met the dim but unfamiliar light of Pagan's dusk. He sat in the browning mosses outside of the rock face, gently laying the bones he carried to rest amongst them, and looked for the first time in many months at the world which they had abandoned together.

The vale was small and wild, and surrounded on all sides by steep cliffs. He could not imagine any soul aside from them having set foot in it – at least not in mankind's recent memory. It was overrun with weeds and vines, and many plants grew here which he could not name. Chief amongst them was a strange tree – thin enough to still be called a sapling but tall enough to have its top branches just peak over the top of the rock walls. Its budding leaves shone bright in the light of the rising moon, glittering as though they had been crafted from flat pressed silver.


End file.
